


If Only I Could

by musicaldork



Category: From Beyond (1986)
Genre: Awkward Tension, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Internal Conflict, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Reader-Insert, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicaldork/pseuds/musicaldork
Summary: This wouldn’t be weird if you didn’t make it weird.That’s what you told yourself, your body sagging into the too-small mattress, shared between you and one Dr. Crawford Tillinghast.Request: Crawford Tillinghast + “There’s only one bed and we sleep as far away as possible from each other but wake up cuddling.”
Relationships: Crawford Tillinghast/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	If Only I Could

This wouldn’t _be_ weird if you didn’t _make it weird_. **  
**

That’s what you told yourself, your body sagging into the too-small mattress, shared between you and one Dr. Crawford Tillinghast.

Back facing him, you pulled the threadbare covers over yourself a little - wary of hogging the sheet; barely big enough for one, let alone two.

There was a chill set into the room. Neither of you acknowledged it, but both of you could feel it.

God, it was so damn _cold_.

Trying to cut off the incessant chattering of your teeth, you found that they were clenched together so tightly, you might end up giving yourself lockjaw.

A sliver of pale, watery moonlight chased the darkness through a crack in the drawn curtains, but other than that, it was only the stillness of pitch black to keep you both company.

Rolling over onto your back, you examined the ceiling like it contained the long-held secrets to the universe. 

…Or at least the long-held secret to making things feel even a _little_ less awkward right now.

According to Murphy’s Law, you shouldn’t have been surprised, really.

Of course, the fates would conspire to land you two in a situation like this, a situation you could take straight out of the pages of a goddamned Nicholas Sparks novel. 

Crawford - _bless the man_ \- offered to sleep on the floor if it’d make you more comfortable. 

You couldn’t in good conscience allow that. 

The poor man looked as exhausted as you’d ever seen him.

The last thing he needed was to catch a cold and a backache he’d never dare complain about - too selfless for his own good.

Crawford was staring upwards with a similarly blinding intensity, hands folded stiffly and perched on his stomach - as if he were too afraid to take up too much room. 

Everything he did gave off that impression. 

Sometimes you felt like you had to be the one to convince him that there was all the space in the world for a man like him.   
That he didn’t need to curl in on himself to make so much more room for others all the time.

But, as always, you bit back the words before they formed, embarrassed by your own earnestness.

At first the two of you had had your backs to each other, facing apart.  
An unspoken way of putting as much distance as possible between you two. 

But that felt far too deliberate. 

Breaking the barrier with apprehension, you had turned to lay on your back. He had soon followed suit, still staring at the ceiling too.

It felt like the world’s worst indoor stargazing session; tasked with counting tiny bumps in the ceiling’s paint, in place of the inescapable lights dotted in the night sky.

You’d try to break the tension - crack a joke about keeping enough room for Jesus in between you two or something - but the half-hearted attempt at humour sits off-colour in your mouth, dying before it reaches the air.

You’re left fidgety and nervous, seized with an edgy restlessness.

You want to twist and turn, toss in bed to relieve the pent-up energy, but you don’t dare to disturb him too much. 

You haven’t turned around to look at him, but from the rigidity of his body, it seems like both of you are finding it difficult to relax.

Although you can’t see him, his breathing is shaky enough that you’re sure he’s still awake - but even so, you don’t turn around. 

That feels too much like acknowledging whatever this may be. 

And that feels dangerous, somehow.

You were just two good friends, sleeping platonically together.  
You were both adults here. You could handle sleeping next to each other. 

The problem was - of course - the far-less-than-platonic feelings bubbling up on your behalf. 

The bite of a usually innocuous desire that swam too close to the surface, too difficult to ignore when he was this close to you.

In the dark, consequences felt less solid, and connections far less tenuous in the moonlight.

You feel trapped in the liminal space that hovers between longing and exactly where it comes into fruition. 

That feeling of being on the verge of something. The transitional, transformative limbo of the heart.

This unspoken _thing_ between the two of you could turn into something more, if only you had the courage to reach out your hand - to link a pinky around his and let it scream your intent into the unflinching darkness.

If only you could.

Turning over again, you did not move any closer to him. You simply let the moment pass.

Maybe another time, maybe in another world.

—

With great eventuality, you both found yourself dozing off into a fitful slumber, the pull of exhaustion and gravity at your eyelids too great a force to withstand.

The rattling of anxious internal thought could only keep one awake for so long before the inevitability of sleep took over.

You welcome the reprieve from the preoccupied conjectures of your own mind.

—

 _Warm_. It’s the first thing you notice.  
You feel warm and comfortable.

Starting to stir awake, you feel steady and calm as you begin to flicker to consciousness.

You’re soothed by a gentle rise and fall, like the ebbing and flowing of sun-warmed waters against a quiet shore.

Pieces start to piece together, and you realise that you aren’t alone in your bed back home.

Your heart hammers away violently in your chest and you struggle to stop your breath from hitching with flustered recognition.

You’re curled right up against Crawford, with an arm and a leg slung over him somehow. 

Crawford fares no better, with you wrapped up tightly in his arms, legs entangled with yours.

Your face is tucked into the t-shirt-clad plane of his chest, and you’re almost on top of him, nuzzled in with the undue affection of your subconscious.

During the night the two of you must have… rolled inwards, sought warmth in each other from the nearest available source. It was only natural. To be expected, even.

But none of that sensible justification saves your stomach from twisting up into knots when you realise how terribly domestic it must seem, intertwined with each other as easily as breathing.

Up against him, you’re hyper-aware of every little thing about Crawford now - as if you weren’t already.

You move with the gentle rise and fall of him, his breathing not quite a snore, but a gentle little purr in his chest. His t-shirt is cotton soft against your cheek, and you resist the urge to burrow your face back into the warmth.

God, he smells nice; something subtle and characteristically sweet.

There isn’t a thing about the man that isn’t soft and altogether far too lovely.

Your body heats up with embarrassment at the sentimentality of your thoughts. You hope to god he hasn’t noticed.

You don’t want this to be a mistake. You don’t want _him_ to be a mistake.

You’d never want to be something he regrets, getting too close to him with no intentions of taking it further, on a miscommunication.

You know how _you_ feel.  
Now, if only you could read _his_ mind.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself away from him.   
It’s difficult, but you get a wonderful view of his mousy, mussed-up bed-hair out of it. 

And- _oh_.  
_He’s awake_.

You just barely resist the urge to reach a hand out and smooth out his hair - to pat it down and run your fingers through it, see if it’s as soft as it looks.

Crawford peers back at you owlishly, and you can’t help but revel in his curious, doe-eyed beauty. 

His eyes are so big and round, framed by thick, dark lashes.   
You think might be the prettiest man you’ve ever met.  
He certainly is the most thoughtful.

“That was… nice.”

Your voice is a little croaky from morning disuse, but you sound surer than you had been last night.

“Yes.” 

He answers carefully, tentative in mapping out this uncharted territory between the two of you. 

“It was cold.”

He’s throwing you a careful chance to deflect - to shut down… whatever it is this is becoming.

These untread waters are soft around the edges with a quietly intimate uncertainty. 

It’s a silent question.  
Crawford is asking something of you, if only you had the courage enough to reach for it.

You think you do.  
You think you could.

“…Yeah, it was. But I would have liked it even if it wasn’t.”

Leaning in closer to him, you fumbled for his hand, lost in the sheets - and found that you could.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and as always, find me on Tumblr at dorkfanfic!   
> My requests are open, and I'm always there to talk! 😊


End file.
